Left Alone
by RorschachBleeder
Summary: Bill is injured and left alone to wait for help. A smoker finds him, and does much worse to Bill than simply killing him. Oneshot. Rape, slash, SmokerXBill


A/N: It's been a severely long time since I've written anything. This is a birthday present for my woman. Go easy on me guise.

Warnings: Slash, rape, cursing, violence.

Pairing: SmokerBill

Disclaimer: I own nothing from Left4Dead. I do not own any characters. I am not making any money from this.

Enjoy.

* * *

Goddammit Francis. Not watchin' where he was shootin'. They hadn't even made it outside of the Green House, and Francis had shot him in the goddamn leg.

They had already used up their medkits from their previous horde endeavor. It's not as if he couldn't handle himself, but Zoey and Louis insisted that he stay behind until they could get another First Aid kit. The bleeding _was_ pretty severe. Louis had used his tie as a tourniquet, and the three left him sitting in a corner with a double barrel and a flash bomb.

The old man made himself comfortable, and waited with his finger on the trigger. The group had been through a lot. He had more scars on him now than he did when he returned from the Nam. Slash marks from Hunters, claw wounds from Witches, a broken rib or two from the Tanks. He had Boomer bile staining his favorite uniform, and numerous bite marks from those never ending commons.

He sighed heavily. A good ten minutes had passed. He heard gunshots and shouting from the distance, fading but still within earshot. That meant the others were still alive.

Setting the gun down on his lap, Bill rummaged into his pockets for a lighter and his box of cigarettes. Shaking the near empty pack, the end of the filter peeked its head out of the crinkled container, and the old man put it to his lips and held it with his mouth. He heard a loud explosion in the distance, guessing that one of them had either tossed a flash bomb or burst a propane tank.

His thumb was pressed against the button on the Zippo, watching the flint create a spark and a flame emerge from the small silver lighter. He rose the lighter to the end of the cigarette, and inhaled; the familiar sensation of the smoke entering his lungs bringing a small wave of peace. It was only so brief. He disliked the taste of menthol cigarettes, but the last time he went hunting for his nicotine fix, he grabbed what he could before the horde descended upon them.

A deep groan of displeasure sounded in his chest, but he let it be. There was no point bitchin' about what type of cigarette ya had under the circumstances. Especially when ya had a couple bullets in your femur.

He put the pack of cigarettes and lighter back into his chest pocket before getting comfy again. The double barrel in his lap felt a tad bit heavy, so he held it to his side while he smoked.

Fifteen minutes passed. The sound of his fellow survivors was getting softer and softer. He knew not to worry about them. There were three of them after all, and they took care of themselves just fine. He only hoped that idiot Francis wouldn't shoot another person in the leg. Well, unless he shot himself in the ass.

He chuckled at the thought, coughing slightly as he smiled.

A sickly cough sounded in the distance, followed by the sound of someone trying to dislodge mucus from their throat. Bill grabbed his gun at lightning speed, keeping his eyes on the weak points of his surrounding area.

That was a Smoker's cough. No doubt about it.

Straining to hear where he was at, he stilled his breathing. A minute passed. He could feel the sweat pouring down his face. He couldn't hear anything but the wind, the sizzle of the tobacco burning in his cigarette, and the ever present but distance sounds of gunshots.

Bill watched the ashes fall, and he sighed. Maybe it was just passing through? He wouldn't be able to defend himself if it attacked.

Aw, horseshit! He could take it. William Overbeck could handle anything. Tanks, Hunters, Witches, anything; BRING IT. He tapped his fingers on the cigarette, more ashes falling in his wake. It was almost out. Probably time to light another one.

"Shit." He cursed, more to clear the silence than an actual sign of displeasure.

Flicking the butt into the air, he set down the double barrel and dug out the pack again.

It was just as he brought another menthol to his chapped lips when he noticed a pale green string of saliva coating his jacket.

His reaction was quick, but not quick enough. His hand was on the butt of the rifle, and then he felt that thick, fleshy, slimy rope tighten around his body and yank him away from his only protection.

Hissing in pain, he clenched his teeth, the pounding agony in his leg making him see stars. He was being dragged fast, away from his gun and away from the safety of his corner. The damn Infected was closing in, and Bill could hear it breathing right behind him.

His fists retaliated, trying to pull the disgusting appendage off his throat. He was scratching, frantic; kicking his good leg while trying to grab onto anything. His fingers caught the edge of the table leg where the ammo was, and he held as tight as he could. He felt the tongue wrapped around him tighten, and he was yanked violently away from the table.

The ammo and spare guns clattered to the floor noisily, and Bill prayed with _every_ damn inch of his soul that a horde didn't join the assault.

The Infected grabbed the back of his uniform, tearing the fabric. The human bit his lip.

Any sound would further alert the horde. He couldn't hear anything coming; not over the sound of the Zombie's ragged breathing and his own heart beating like a drum in his ear.

He was pulled up, putting weight on his injured leg as the Infected forced him to stand. He struggled against the hold, thrashing his arms and trying to escape. Slamming his elbow into the Smoker's chest, he heard a pained wheeze. But the hold around him didn't falter.

Why wasn't this thing tearing into him yet?

The old man thrashed again, shifting all his weight onto his good leg while backing the Smoker against a wall.

The Infected wheezed again, a choked cough, which turned into a slow hiss. Bill tried to maneuver his elbow so he could slam it into the zombie's face, maybe force it to bite off its own tongue.

That was its tongue, wasn't it?

He was shaken from his thoughts when the Smoker grabbed his arms and pinned them behind Bill, police fashion. It spun around, and suddenly Bill's face was pressed none too gently into the concrete wall. '_Fuck!_' he mentally cursed, wincing from the pain in his leg.

So this was it. He was gonna be killed by a goddamn Smoker. All thanks to Francis' dumb, retarded ass.

But it still wasn't tearing into him yet.

His heart was fluttering against his chest like a motor. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to move. It hurt _not_ to move. The Smoker was breathing against his shoulder, making him feel a sick warm sensation spread over his skin. Its hands were gripping his wrists like a vice, painfully sharp claws digging into his skin. He could feel the boils on its hands; the crust from dried pus and even fresh pus from broken sores coating his sweaty palms.

"Jesus _Christ_, you stink." He murmured, trying to turn his head to look at the fucker. The Smoker remained still, keeping its grip firm.

Was it analyzing him? No, these things weren't fucking Vietcong soldiers. They were animals. Stupid, dumb, angry animals. It was probably just weak or tired, or had half its brain sitting on the sidewalk.

He felt its tongue shift against his clothing, and he suddenly noticed how it was wrapped around him.

The extended muscle had snaked over his shoulder, under his armpits, over his torso, and was wrapped a couple times around each thigh. And it felt uncomfortably tight against his crotch.

"Could you at least get your fuckin' tongue off'a my junk?" he spat, digging his heel into the ground to try and loosen the thing's grip. He felt the tongue's hold tighten as the Smoker tilted his head.

Finally, a reaction.

He felt the Smoker shift a little, changing its stance but not loosening its grip. The sound of its ragged breathing was quite like that of his own, when he had a smoking fit. Maybe just a bit more labored, or sickly than his own.

The tongue moved, exactly like a big slimy boa would, slithering on its way around his body. It seemed that no matter how much of the tongue was already in use, it could still become longer.

Bill jumped when he felt the warm, slimy appendage slide under his white tank top, snaking its way over his chest. He started to thrash violently in alarm, biting back the pain the throbbed from his wound.

"The fuck you doin'?" he grumbled, anger and confusion in his tone. The Smoker pressed him against the wall even harder, digging those talons even deeper into his bruising flesh. He stopped his actions, not wanting to provoke a killing strike from the zombie. Besides, it had already passed at least twenty minutes. Those guys would come back soon.

Bill tried to push back from the wall, but it was useless. His strength was draining, and he felt heavy from the pain. Going limp, he slowly slid down, onto his knees. The Smoker made no move to correct this; it just went down with him.

So here he was, trapped between a Smoker and a hard place, on his knees and at the mercy of the Infected.

He inhaled deeply, unsure of how soon his rescuers would arrive. Would it be too late?

Bill didn't want to know. He gave another cheap shot to the Smoker, slamming his elbow into its side. The Smoker coughed, letting out a long pained hiss.

The tongue relented from his chest, away from Bill's throat. At least it wasn't threatening to wrap around his airways anymore.

He felt it constrict and slither, all at once, all over him. The old man guessed this is probably what a gazelle or baby deer felt when a boa constrictor was squeezing it to death. Panic. Fear. Terror. The horrible and intense emotions when you know you're trapped.

The grip around him wasn't crushing him through. He imagined that was probably because this wasn't an entire organism wrapped around him. It was an elongated tongue.

What the hell was it doing?

Bill grunted, looking down curiously. All around him, in coils, was the tongue. It was completely covering him from his armpits to his waist.

There were three or four loops around each thigh, and the end was collecting itself on the floor. It reminded him of pulling out all the tape from those old cassette players, a huge mess of it. He watched as the tip suddenly rose, dragging the rest of the unused length of muscle up Bill's leg.

He almost shouted in confusion when it slid down into the hem of his pants.

The old man almost gagged at how disgusting it felt; that slimy appendage slithering over his skin.

"Knock it off!" he growled, twisting his torso. The Smoker ignored his protest, allowing more of its tongue to take up all the empty room in his jeans. It felt like someone had dropped a bucket of warm, fresh intestines into his pants; wet, hot, sticky, _gross_.

Bill thrashed again, trying to close his legs and press them against his chest to force the rope of tongue out of his jeans. The way the Smoker had him trapped allowed him no room to do so.

"I said-!" he began, reeling his head back and slamming his skull into the Smokers face. "KNOCK IT OFF!"

All movement on the Infected's part halted, and he heard a soft, muffled exhale. Thinking he'd won, Bill continued to wriggle in the Smoker's grip, hoping it would loosen.

Not a minute later, the zombie snapped back. He felt those claws digging deeper into his wrists, touching bone. The pain was overwhelming. It felt like a line of fire going up his arm, a burning and tingling sensation.

Bill clenched his teeth to silence the shout that threatened to escape, squeezing his eyes shut; knowing that if he screamed, it would only alert a horde.

The mess of bunched up tongue in his jeans began to move, just as the Smoker's grip on his wrists loosened slightly. Hissing, the Smoker used its body to keep Bill pinned to the wall, and those talons threatened him not to retaliate.

He grunted, taking a deep breath and keeping his body rigid. The oily muscle moved around inside his clothing; rubbing up and around his genitals. He hoped it wouldn't tear his tender bits off or anything; just shoot him in the face if that happened.

His heart beat increased considerably, as did his breathing. He let out a shaky exhale, and it was then he realized that he was trembling with fear.

The muscle continued this for a few minutes, wriggling around like a fleshy ocean. He couldn't imagine what the _fuck_ it was doing down there, besides coating his pants in saliva and making him feel **extremely** uncomfortable.

He stiffened when he felt the tip slide over his penis, and his eyes widened.

The tongue snaked around his member, and to his sheer horror, he was becoming aroused from the action.

"No. no, no, no, no, _NO!" _ He hissed, terror and anger evident in his voice. He couldn't believe this. This wasn't happening to him.

His muscles tensed, ready to fight again, but the claws against his wrists stilled him.

NO! He wasn't about to get molested by a fucking zombie. He'd rather die!

He tried to close his legs, trash again, anything to stop this.

But it didn't stop.

The Smoker's tongue tightened, causing a sick wave of pleasure to course through his bones. The slickness of the appendage made it all the more sensitive; like a wet mouth was wrapped around his length.

The Veteran was almost ready to cry. How could this be happening? Where were his friends? Where was Zoey?

All thoughts left him as the tongue gripped him tightly, making him hiss to block a moan. He could feel the way it was situated now; the tongue wrapped around his entire bottom half, circled around his waist, his thighs, between his legs and around his erection.

He let out an emotional whimper, feeling his pride leave his being. This was sick. It was wrong. He didn't want this. He never wanted to die as much as he did now.

Body betraying him, he felt goose bumps spread over his skin, a small shiver trailing through his body as the tongue began to move.

Keeping his forehead pressed into the wall, he tried to block it out; thinking about shooting zombies, shooting Francis, killing something. _Anything_ to take his mind off of what was happening.

The Smoker coughed, hacking up mucus in its throat as it continued to rape him. Bill wondered if this thing had _**this**_ in mind the whole time, which was why it hadn't killed him yet. But why?

His eyes widened as it moved again, the Smoker wheezing noisily into his ear as its tongue tightened more. To his horror, it slowly began jacking him off; the slippery coils squeezing him rapidly as they held his erection. Bill couldn't help himself this time. He moaned, deeply in his throat. The Smoker paused again, nuzzling into the side of his head, against his ear. It tried to make a noise, but it was muffled by the expanse of tongue hanging from its jaw.

"Stop it…" he begged, his voice sounding strained. The Infected ignored him, the tip of its monstrous tongue gliding over the sensitive head of his member. His body went limp in defeat, finally giving in.

Almost immediately after he stopped fighting it, the Smoker released his wrists and began to touch him where the tongue was not constricting him.

He squeezed his eyes shut, doing as best as he could to ignore the pin pricks of pain as the Smoker's claws cut into his skin as it scratched him, trying to dig it's way past his shirt.

Palms gripping the front of his chest, it suddenly began to move against his back; pressing itself into him in a strange grinding motion.

Bill was lost in his thoughts, not really here or there. He moaned in response to the tongue speeding up, the wet sloppy sounds emanating from between his legs. The Smoker held him closer, those claws slicing into his chest as it gripped him fiercely; arched over the Veteran's bent figure as it began to breathe harshly.

The man's eyes opened; jolted back from his thoughts at the immense pleasure that was becoming more and more potent. He felt that pressure building in his loins, increasing with every stroke and squeeze from the Smoker's energetic tongue. It had loosened its grip on his arms, enough for him to move them freely.

Unable to block out the impending orgasm, he braced himself against the ground, now on his hands and knees as the Smoker rubbed itself against his rear.

For this moment, there was no Infection, There was no killing, no Smoker, no Bill. Just this sick, dangerous pleasure that was coursing through him.

He closed his eyes again, biting his lip to stifle the pleasured groans that were forming in his throat. The Smoker's hands clawed down his body, settling at his hips. It was slamming itself against Bill at an urgent pace, the deranged panting that escaped the creature sounding more labored than usual.

It suddenly stopped, and kept its lower half pressed against Bill's ass. Its tongue moved frantically now, encouraging him to let go.

He was hanging on the edge, and one last squeeze was all it took to push him. The old man bit his lip, silencing himself as the waves of euphoria hit him like a tidal wave, and he collapsed quite suddenly against the dirt covered floor.

The orgasm began to subside soon enough, leaving Bill a pained, defiled, and panting mess. He felt the tongue uncoil itself, the greasy appendage sliding away from his spent organ and out of his slime covered pants.

Rising up, the Smoker slurped its tongue back into its mouth, and stared down at the human he had just raped.

This was it. The Infected would finally kill him.

The familiar tongue spilled back out, wrapping around Bill's neck. Without struggling, the old man let it lift him from the floor, choking him tightly. It brought him to its eye level, and after a moment of staring, it raised its clawed hands to his chest.

"Smoker on Bill!"

His eyes snapped open when he heard Zoey's voice. All at once, the sound of gunshots met his ears as he was thrown to the floor, and he watched at the Smoker climbed the walls and disappeared.

"Oh my God, Bill!" Zoey shouted, dropping her weapon and rushing over to her wounded team mate. Francis clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "Damn. It got away." He cursed, lowering his pistol.

Zoey grabbed Bill's arm, hooking it around her neck as she tried to get him to stand. "It's okay, Bill. We're here now. Get up." She encouraged, straining to lift him. Louis ran over and helped her, grabbing his other arm and guiding them to the table.

He stared off in disbelief, not saying a word. He was still trembling when he sat up on the table, eyes narrowed in anger.

"Sorry we took so long." She apologized, her warm hand rubbing his back. He cleared his throat, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Yeah. We ran into a Tank. **BIG** son'ovva bitch." Louis added. Zoey unhooked her medkit, setting it on her lap. She quickly unzipped it, and pulled out a set of pills and a few rolls of gauze.

"We would've come back sooner if Francis hadn't shot a car and alerted the horde." The dark skinned male complained, glancing over to the biker. Francis spit a wad of saliva in response. Bill ignored their words.

"Woah, what happened to you Bill?" the young girl questioned, delicately holding up his wrists. Louis stared at the deep claw marks with concern, digging out a bottle of anti-bacterial cleanser. He quickly unscrewed the cap and poured it over the wounds.

"And why are your pants soaked?" she continued. Bill remained silent, allowing them to wrap and treat his numerous injuries. Francis chuckled, walking across the room and picking up Bill's double barrel.

"Ha! Told ya the old goat couldn't handle himself. I bet he pissed his pants!" the biker laughed. Zoey glared at him, but she didn't stop bandaging Bill's leg.

"Francis, knock it off." Louis pleaded. Francis continued to smile, handing the gun to Bill. The old man held his weapon tightly, clutching it to himself as he dug out his smokes and lighter. With the gun held under his arm, he put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it, inhaling deeply.

"Next time we'll have to babysit the poor old man." Francis laughed, turning his back as he continued to laugh. After a long drag of his cigarette, he took the shot gun and aimed at the Biker's ass.

A loud pained shout sounded after he fired his weapon, followed by the protests of Zoey and Louis.


End file.
